The Thunder After the Lightning
by mackenzie925
Summary: While Booth and Brennan try to handle the new dynamics in their partnership, they must race to find a murderer before it's too late, before it costs one of them their life.
1. Prologue: The Past in the Now

_**Title: The Thunder after the Lightning**_

_**Rating: PG-13 **_

_**Spoilers: none really - just season five and beyond.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, Brennan, or Booth. **_

_**Author's Note: Here we go. I hope all of you enjoy my first attempt with Bones fan fiction. Please don't be too harsh. I tried to stay as true to the characters as possible. Dr. Brennan is one of the most challenging characters to write, and I can only pray I'm close. **_

_**Everyone - Enjoy!**_

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_**Prologue: The Past in the Now**_

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Seeley Booth had seen this before.

Trapped and injured, he could only look on helplessly as his assailants tore through his cell doors, pulled him and his buddy to their feet, and dragged them into the hallway. He barely felt their forcefulness anymore, as so much of his feeling in the last few days had withered away. Feeling anything only made it more difficult to take the beatings, to endure what his captors chose to torture him and his friend with next. Expectedly, they were both dragged to a new room, one with stone walls and no furniture.

If he'd had even an ounce of strength left, Booth probably would've tried to stop their captors from shackling his friend face first against the wall. With arms and legs spread, his friend cried out again and again when the whip came down, striking his back, neck, and shoulders.

Booth was repositioned facing away from the scene, shackled to the ground on his hands and knees. They took his shoes and his shirt off and threw them to the corner, leaving only his pants on to guard his body from the damp cement floor. The beatings were mostly to the bottoms of his feet where his wounds from the night before had just started to heal. He bit down hard, grinded his teeth, as his captors seemed to concentrate hard on their task.

His friend didn't quite have the same resolve as he did, and Booth forced himself to ignore his friend's screams.

And then everything stopped, was still, and in one motion his captor was bent down over him, his lips close to his ear.

"Tell me. I need to know," his captor whispered.

Booth felt his skin crawl.

"Go to hell," Booth shot back, his teeth clenched.

His captor stood and walked around so he could look down at Booth, kneeled there before him on the hard cement surface.

"You certainly are a hard ass, aren't you?" he commented, his accent thick through the English.

Booth raised his head only a little, enough to gaze up at the face he'd come to truly hate. He didn't hate much, but this man … yeah, he could murder him in cold blood, he was certain.

"Not too long, and I'll have yours over a fire," Booth warned him. Although he had force behind his words, he knew there was little chance of it happening. Unless the grace of God blessed him with an unforeseen, unexpected miracle, he was certain he would die here. No way he was going to give them the information they craved, and in all likelihood his Ranger company was probably not looking for him, as they would have no idea _where _to look to find them. His mission, their mission, had been on a need to know basis.

His captor smiled easily.

"Tall words coming from a man on his knees," he bellowed.

He walked over to Booth's buddy, who was panting heavily and still shackled tightly against the wall. His friend's back was bloody, his shirt torn from the force of the blows. From here, Booth could see the bruises across his middle back, stretching around to his abdomen, and sensed the new assaults had only aggravated his broken ribs.

His captor made a motion to his people, and quickly his friend was unshackled and forced to his knees next to Booth less than ten feet away.

"How about I try a new scenario?" his captor asked aloud, almost thoughtfully.

Turning to Booth's friend, their captor gripped the back of his shirt and forced his head up. He took his hand gun out of his hip holster and placed it delicately to his friend's forehead.

"Can I have those codes? Pretty please?" his captor requested mockingly, pressing the barrel of the gun harder into his friend's head. "Or Private Haynesworth loses his head."

Booth saw his friend's eyes dart over to him anxiously. For a moment, Booth didn't know what to do. He gazed around the room frantically, looking for anything he could use while his mind tumbled through possible scenarios of escape like a pinball machine.

Then a loud shot echoed through the cold room, and in an instant his decision was made for him.

His friend's body dropped to the ground with a thud.

"You've gotta be faster, Sergeant," his captor taunted. He stepped up to Booth and placed the barrel of the gun to his forehead. "Now let's try this again. Because even though I would love to have those codes, I also know better. Most Americans are weak, but American soldiers usually stay quiet, yelling out useless numbers and rank while they die for their ungrateful country. And if you choose to be the same, then no need to waste either of our time here a second longer."

The barrel of the gun, still splattered with his friend's blood, was pushed more insistently against Booth's skull. And he heard the click.

And then he heard the sirens.

* * *

With a rush of air to his lungs, Booth bolted to a sitting position in bed. His eyes darted around the room restlessly, his breathing still fast as he gathered a sense of his surroundings. It took only a few worthy seconds to realize he was in a warm bed, to see the sun as it stretched lazily across the bedroom floor, and to hear the _beep-beep _of the alarm clock on the night stand next to him. He rubbed his hand over his face, drawing away the sleepiness from his mind with one stroke.

He sighed heavily, then reached over to the clock and shut the alarm off. On its face read half past seven, which meant he was probably going to be late for work. The room felt cold, like his body was waking with a chill on a winter morning in January rather than the warm gleam that currently sifted through the window from the April morning sun just outside. He dropped backwards onto the bed and looked over to his right to catch a glimpse of the beautiful face that greeted him most mornings now.

But the spot next to him was empty. And when Booth listened carefully, through the birds singing from the tree limb just outside the window and traffic noise from the street below, he sensed the beautiful face of his lover had already left for the day.

Odd, he thought to himself. She rarely ever left before him, and never before waking him.

Little by little, while thinking of his morning routine and the new day, the images from his dream vanished, just as they always did. This was normal, he discovered, to be haunted by the past. Booth knew plenty of army buddies who suffered from the same problem, although many had long ago let go of it. Only a select few did the images of war still linger so persistently, now years gone from the events. Even fewer did it really affect, as to make them crazy, out of their minds.

But he was okay. He only lost sleep here and there. He could manage.

Gathering his strength, Booth climbed out of bed and gathered his clothes folded neatly in the chair in the corner of the room. He'd aptly brought an extra suit with him last night before he came over, sensing she wasn't going to let him leave before sunrise. He thought briefly of discussing with her the idea of having _closet space _designated for him, but then decided against it. Although _he_ was comfortable with sharing their apartments, or maybe even tossing the words _moving in together_ around their daily living, he was certain it would only scare her off.

It _was_ a little soon for normal relationships to be thinking such a concept, even though they weren't a normal relationship. They'd been together for … well, it seemed like a long time, even if they'd just risen into the stratosphere of sexual intimacy only months ago.

_Well, this thread of conversation was for another day_, he thought resolutely. No time or need to bring it up now.

Booth walked out into the living room and found his duffle bag on the couch. He sifted through it quickly and found his dress shirt, tie, and pants. Before too long he was in her shower, the cascade of the water driving away his lingering sleepiness. He closed his eyes, let his mind wander, and almost expected to hear the door of her shower open, to feel her hands run softly up the muscles of his back.

She'd memorized the contours of his muscles, the spots he enjoyed her touch the most. No harder for her to do as studying and discovering the cause of death hidden within the puzzle of her latest skeleton.

In only a few minutes he was standing in her kitchen, dried and dressed for the day. He made a quick breakfast, cereal and a little coffee, while he gathered around the rest of his belongings; keys, his shoes, and his suit jacket still hanging in the closet from where she'd left it.

And then the phone rang, just as Booth had devoured a few spoonfuls of Captain Crunch. He considered answering it, only because it could be Brennan, probably calling to get on his case for taking so long to get ready. She was probably expecting him to show up at the lab or his office, and perhaps a new case had brewed.

But then it may not be her, and he could very well blow their cover. After all, it was their decision at the beginning to hide their relationship until they decided they were ready to share it with the world. Neither were sure of the consequences that would arise from them sleeping together. Their careers were important to both of them, and neither had been ready at the beginning to risk it.

At the third ring Brennan's answering machine caught the call, her voice soft and casual as she informed the caller of her absence from the apartment and her desire for them to call back or leave a phone number for her to do so.

Booth took a quick gulp of his coffee, then held it frozen in his mouth as the voice of the caller resonated through the silent apartment.

"Hey, Bren," the male voice greeted softly. Immediately Booth stiffened. His voice sounded young, but Booth couldn't tell if his assessment was due to his training as an investigator or his sudden, steaming jealously.

"This is Victor, calling you for the hundredth time," the voice continued with a laugh, having no understanding of Booth's increasing rage. "If I knew any better, I'd say you were ignoring me. Decided to try your home phone, since you seem to be side stepping me on your cell. I really need your answer for this summer, Bren."

Booth swallowed his coffee slowly as he listened. His heart was beating faster now than when he'd awoken from his nightmare.

"Come on, how can you pass it up? A fresh dig site in Peru, waiting for a trained, professional, sexy Forensic Anthropologist to give it a good look. I know it's not China, but it's still a good find. Three months, surrounded by wilderness, skeletons, and eating in some of the best Amazonian dives this side of the equator. What do you say?"

Then the voice was gone, leaving Booth alone in the kitchen wondering who the hell Victor was, and why Brennan would keep him a secret.

Further consideration only made his blood boil hotter, as no possible scenario seemed to make him forget the warm tone in Victor's voice. Only he should sound so _warm _to his Bones from here on out_, and no way _should she leave him this summer for three months. That he couldn't handle.

With a grimace, he set his coffee cup and bowl in the kitchen sink, grabbed his keys from the counter, his duffle bag from the couch, and was out of her apartment in twenty seconds.

Halfway down her building in the elevator, Booth took a call from his office.

A new body, a new case.

His anger would have to wait.

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to be continued ... :-)


	2. Bumper Cars on the Interstate

_**Title: The Thunder After the Lightning**_

_**Rating: PG-13**_

**Author's Note: **Finally wrote and edited through the next section. I had re-examine a few things before I posted it, to ensure I had the story going in the direction I wanted. Thanks everyone for waiting.

Enjoy!

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_**Chapter 1: Bumper Cars on the Interstate**_

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Booth barely said a word to Brennan in the car as he drove them to the crime scene. He kept his answers and questions confined to the information from the case, and Brennan didn't struggle to do the same. Although he had no intention of disclosing his feelings to her in his SUV headed to a crime scene, he was still a little peeved she hadn't even acknowledged his sour mood. She often infuriated him whenever she failed to respond to him the way he expected from a normal female.

Up ahead Booth saw the police cars, the coroner's vehicle, and many other authorities trying desperately to be apart of the investigation and to help where possible.

They were on a desolate road off of Interstate 81, where sometime last night a car had taken a nose dive over the side of the bank and into the woods, then caught on fire.

Booth parked behind a Virginia State Police car, and exited his SUV still wearing his suit and tie from earlier this morning. Brennan had changed into her blue scientist gear, making it only a little easier for Booth to pretend she wasn't as beautiful as last night. Placing such a veil over his eyes was the only way he could legitimately stay angry with her these days.

As the two of them started walking down the side of the bank, Booth motioned to the torn guardrail. "The driver had quite the joy ride last night."

He stepping carefully through the tall grass and mud, and frowned at his ruined shoes. The huge rain storm last night was making their walk through the woods sloppy.

Brennan shielded her eyes from the blinding sun.

"I don't see any mud charred up by his brakes," Brennan said. "The accident must've taken place before it started to rain last night."

Booth shrugged. "He was probably drunk, Bones. Lost control, drove over the bank, hit the tree and caught on fire."

Brennan smirked and glanced to him. "Very few of our cases are ever that simple."

"No, but there's always a chance for a first."

She turned her attention to the accident scene, a red Ford Focus sedan wrapped around a tree. The fire had destroyed most of the inside, leaving only the outside frame truly recognizable. Rain from the storm last night was probably the reason why the outer frame had been spared from the fire. However, it was hard to miss the clear outline of the burnt body of the driver still snuggled in the driver's seat. The rain hadn't saved him.

Brennan moved to the driver's side immediately, but Booth was caught by a Virginia State Policeman who insisted on talking with him as he tried to follow.

"Agent Booth, FBI?" the young man asked. His eyes were drawn, and he looked exhausted.

Booth nodded. "Were you the first officer on the scene?"

"Yeah, Officer Cameron," he supplied, shaking Booth's hand quickly. The officer struggled keeping up with Booth as he hurried down to his partner's side. "Saw smoke from the road while I was doing my early morning patrol of the area."

"What time was that exactly?"

"About 5:30 or so. It's a small town, and the fire trucks were here within minutes. But the storm last night had gotten the fire under control for us."

By this time they had reached the crime scene, and Brennan was in deep concentration as she gazed meticulously over the driver's remains and the car's burnt interior.

Booth shook his head with slight disbelief. "I can't believe it rained so hard last night. I didn't hear even a minute of it."

"You're a heavy sleeper," Brennan answered instinctively, her attention mostly drawn to the crime scene. Only when she caught a glimpse of Booth and the state policeman staring at her with expectation did she realize she'd spoken way out of turn.

Booth's face was especially surprised and a little annoyed that she had mistakenly said something so revealing, mainly in front of another law enforcement officer, someone who could easily go back to his superiors and tattle to them of his possible misconduct with his partner. And hearing of his relationship with Brennan in the bedroom from a state policeman was hardly the way Booth had planned to tell his boss when the time was right.

Brennan, however, quickly amended her comment.

"What I said was just a theory," Brennan reassured. She tried very hard to sound as scientific as possible, to make it seem as if her ill-advised words were merely a helpful suggestion rather than the expected answer from someone with first hand knowledge. "My hypothesis is merely that, with no evidence, examples, or controlled tests to confirm it."

Booth sighed deeply and turned back to Officer Cameron. Time to change the subject.

"You didn't see anything else? See anyone else around or anything?" he asked, removing his note pad from his jacket pocket to start taking notes.

The police officer shook his head, but struggled a little over his answers.

"I didn't see … no, nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. Just the smoke. I hurried down this embankment to see where all the commotion was, and found the car. And the …" the officer began, gesturing to the driver with a hard swallow, "and the guy there. There were a few spots still smoldering, but not much else. And the body, burnt … the smell of it … like it was _cooked_, I won't forget it."

The officer made a grim face, just in time for Brennan to see it as she looked up to the two of them hovering over her.

"Yes, burnt flesh often smells like pork, in case you're looking for a more adequate example," Brennan offered.

Turning to Booth, she made a grimace of her own, but for a far different reason.

"Male, mid- twenties. Broken femur, probably from the accident," she said, prompting Booth to begin writing. Brennan glanced back to the body as she continued. "I see bruising along the torso from the airbag deployment. A fracture to the right radius bone, although I don't believe it's from the accident."

Booth nodded, still writing. "Wrist, got it," he said absently.

Brennan looked to him with a delighted smile. "Booth, spending time with me is finally having a measurable, positive effect on you."

"Hmm, not necessarily," he said. "Parker's science class is learning some basics of the human body, and he's been telling me all about it. In between Spider-Man and Bugs Bunny cartoons, he's wanted to watch the Discovery Kids Channel."

Brennan's smile faded a little as she looked back at the burnt corpse, and a strange flood of resentment poured into her core. She was thrilled when Parker had developed a healthy interest in science, mostly due to she and her father's investment in showing him how _cool _the subject could be whenever they had some free time. Lately she and Booth had been extremely busy; the demand of murder cases and their overpowering, sexual need for one another the main reasons for their mutual inability to concentrate on much else. So she'd had little time recently to share with him anything new. Not to forget, Rebecca had been coming up with new ways to keep Parker away from Booth when it was his turn with their son.

Still, lack of time aside, Booth usually told her stories of Parker's growth through childhood on a regular basis, and since they'd been sleeping together her interest in the overall well-being of Booth's son had grown considerably. Long before their relationship, had she known, Brennan would've expected Booth to guilt her into helping Parker understand the nuances of the human body. Now when no guilt was needed, Booth was suddenly holding back.

Brennan shook her head absently, realizing now was hardly the time to be thinking about such things. Sleeping with Booth seemed to make her do things she's never done before, including taking her attention away from her work. Booth, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice she'd stopped spewing information to him, as he was now in a heated discussion with the officer who had first arrived on the scene.

Another meaningful look at the skeleton helped her resentment fade, her concerns now humbled by the more important matters at hand.

"Booth," she called out, her voice thick with forewarning and regret.

He came up beside her and bent down to look into the driver's side window.

"The back fender on the car's all broken in," he informed. "I think our driver and another driver were playing bumper cars."

Brennan pointed to the driver's burnt skull.

"Gunshot to the head," she said quietly. "I can also smell a petroleum based accelerant. I believe I can safely assess that this man was murdered."

"Yeah, me too," Booth admitted solemnly. He stood and stretched his back, sighing in sadness of the truth. "Okay, what do you need, Bones?"

"Bone and remaining flesh from the body have melted into what's left of the driver's seat. We're going to need the entire car sent to the Jeffersonian."

In moments Booth's FBI people were taking care of her request. Most continued to sweep the area looking for oddities, while the others started to strap the car to a tow truck.

And though nearly all of Brennan's thoughts were focused on the body, what needed to be done and searched through to gather an accurate assessment of what happened here, her lingering thoughts of Booth and Parker persistently tugged on her attention.

Moreover, she wondered if the reason Booth had neglected to tell her of Parker's recent school curriculum had anything to do with his inability to sleep at night. Booth probably didn't think she noticed it when he awoke with a start beside her, covered in a cold sweat. Brennan wasn't entirely sure how long his dreams had been a source of insomnia for Booth. All she really knew was it had been happening more frequently in the past month, and it greatly worried her.

But as someone who was unfamiliar with relationships as a whole, especially while in such an intense, intimate stage with whom she has shared with no other, Brennan had no clue what to do. She wanted to say something. She wanted to follow him when he left her side, when only the soft hum from the refrigerator in the kitchen could calm him or when a half hour lost in the gleam from the street light outside the living room window could make his heart stop racing so hard.

Brennan wanted to be there for him … but she just didn't know how he needed her.

"Ready?" Booth asked, coming up beside her.

She nodded, and refocused her eyes on the car as the tow truck pulled it slowly up the side of the embankment.

"Yeah, let's get going."

* * *

Brennan and her team worked for the rest of the morning on extracting evidence from the car. They needed to be very careful so as not to compromise anything meaningful, as everything they find could very well be the one thing needed to solve the case. Not to mention, Brennan hated it when a skeleton wasn't as complete as possible. She knew better than anyone the importance of the tiniest sliver of bone, because there was no telling what each piece would tell them about their victim. Every skeleton held a story, one they needed to know with completion in order to understand how the person lived, and how they died.

Gratefully, with a fresh case and new evidence to collect, Brennan had almost forgotten about her concerns for Booth. Hodgins was busy finding particulates, and was especially proud of discovering a little paint on the bumper from the alleged other vehicle who might have also been involved in the accident. He found a few bugs, remains from peanut shells on the front floor that had survived the fire, and residue from a briefcase in the back seat.

Daisy started collecting melted pieces of flesh and bone from the driver's door, which had been removed and was off to the side, and the driver's seat, all the while talking endlessly about how much she enjoyed working with bones that had been in a fire. Little else seemed to fascinate her.

"Did you know hair melts first when someone is on fire?" Daisy informed. She carefully detached some flesh from the steering wheel as she continued, shaking her head. "Of course you know that, you're the famous Dr. Brennan. I'm just making conversation, you know. Sometimes it makes the meticulous work go faster when I start talking."

"Miss Wick, if you'd prefer, I hear the Egyptian Department needs help cataloguing their new arrivals. Dr. Winchester is a colleague of mine, so I'm sure I could arrange it for you," Brennan said distantly, her concentration focused completely on the skeleton.

Daisy drew back to her work immediately, and reminded herself there were far worse jobs than pulling burnt flesh and bone off of a car seat.

Turning to Cam, Brennan pointed to the bullet hole in their victim's head. "Small caliber, and the exit wound is on the other side, just above the mandible. I'm anxious to remove the skull to gain a better visual. There's also evidence of trauma at the left maxillary sinus."

Cam stepped closer for a better look. "I'll have to do a proper autopsy to determine whether he was shot first before being set on fire," she said.

"Considering the accelerant, I sense it's a plausible conclusion," Brennan said, more definitively now than when she first saw the body a few hours ago. "Although I often fail to see the reasoning for doing so. The murderer must know authorities will eventually discover the victim's identity, as well as cause of death. Setting their victim on fire never destroys all of the evidence. Something is always left behind."

Sweets came up behind them with a knowing smile. "Well, sometimes murderers set their victims on fire to cover-up their actions, for their own benefit. They're trying to eradicate their sin from their conscious, trying to make themselves believe it never happened. Of course, it hardly ever works."

Brennan gave Sweets a disgusted look, then turned her gaze back to their victim.

"That seems irrational. No form of action can ever turn back time, or erase something that's already happened from the course of someone's life."

Sweets shrugged leisurely, and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Perhaps irrational to you, Dr. Brennan, but it doesn't stop others from trying. People do a number of things to find absolution in their lives, from volunteering for a non-profit organization, to going to church on a regular basis. Everyone finds their own way to make themselves feel better after they've made a mistake."

Cam glanced over to Daisy. "Keep going, we need to get this body out soon," she ordered urgently.

Daisy nodded with great agreement, then gave Sweets a wink once Cam had turned away and walked towards the main lab platform. Sweets' face turned red, and he returned her affection with a soft smile.

"Is there a credible reason why you're here, Sweets? There are no witnesses in need for your expertise in fortune-telling," Brennan asked, breaking the spell between the two lovebirds on either side of her.

Sweets recovered quickly, shaking his head adamantly.

"No, actually, Booth asked me to meet him here," he said, slipping to Brennan's right to watch her gather some charred bone from the headrest of the seat behind the victim's skull.

In the meantime, Cam had returned with a sterilized tray. "I'm going to take a piece of the remaining flesh and test for DNA," she said. She took a few samples from Daisy's collection.

Brennan stood with a piece of bone caught in the tongs of her tweezers, and placed it on the tray set next to her on a rolling platform. She grimaced slightly with Sweets' confession before she bent down to retrieve more evidence.

"Why would Booth want to meet you here?"

"Because it was on my way," Booth suddenly replied, coming up behind them with file in hand. "I have a possible ID from the VIN on the car. The car was registered to an Ethan Hamilton, age twenty-seven. Lives right here in D.C.. Works as an assistant manager in _Lambert's Food Market_, a grocery store just outside of the city."

Booth handed Sweets the file, who took it appreciatively.

"It'll be just a little longer, Booth, before we have the victim out of the vehicle," Brennan informed, placing another piece of charred bone on the tray beside her.

He nodded, then slid in to stand beside her, his back to Sweets so he couldn't hear what he was going to say.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked softly.

Brennan glanced up to him in mild surprise. "Sure," she said with a shrug, turning back to the victim. She found it strange he would ask permission, especially since she believed their friendship had long past the need for formality.

Booth nudged her a little, and when she looked to him again, even more confused than before, he gestured to her office. "In private," he insisted, his tone serious.

"Okay," she agreed.

She didn't have a chance to say anything more, or to inquire the reason for his need for privacy before he left her side and headed straight for her office. The sound of his shoes clipping the floor as he walked matched the nervous beat of her heart. For whatever reason, whether by his voice, his tone, or his always telling eyes, she knew he wasn't happy. The warning was there, yet she could only speculate to it's origin, having not the courage to admit this could be more far more severe than a couple of restless nights.

With a tiny sigh, she followed him and convinced herself she was over-reacting. This was Booth, after all - the man who confessed his undying love for her while they were trapped in that cabin, closed off from the rest of the world by two feet of snow. There was no possible way he would do something irrational, like call this entire affair of theirs off just because he hasn't slept well in weeks. He probably wanted to finally explain to her why hadn't been sleeping well, although Brennan felt the timing was a little off. They would have plenty of time tonight for discussion, when they could be alone and in the privacy of her apartment.

However, like her, when he's ready to do something he does it without hesitation.

By the time Brennan had reached her office door, she was convinced the latter had to be true. Booth was pacing slowly from one side of her office to the other, his hands at his waist. Those were clear signs that he was frustrated.

"Shut the door," he requested, almost a whisper.

Brennan did so, then walked over to her desk, unsure of what she should say. Before Booth, Sully and Pete had been her only opportunities for a lasting relationship. Neither relationship offered her much experience on how to handle the uncomfortable conversations that were sure to be had with a long time lover - other than at the end, which ultimately led to her separation from each man, respectively. Brennan wasn't used to drama in the middle, or to realizing her lover was in pain, prompting her desire to help and understand.

But Booth …. Booth was different for her, in so many ways. Booth stirred storms of raging feelings inside of her that she had never felt before. To see him in pain meant she was in pain, and that was a huge admission for someone who rarely let anyone of the opposite sex get so close. Only Angela worried her so, when she was lost in a relationship or in a terrible, downward spiral.

"What's going on, Booth?" Brennan finally asked, breaking the tension.

Booth looked up from the floor, into her eyes.

"I don't know. You tell me," he began. "Why don't we start with - _Who's Victor?"_

"Victor?"

Booth stepped closer to her. "Yeah, _Victor. _Who is he?"

"Booth, I don't know what you're talking about. Is Victor a suspect in this case?" Brennan conjured, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, wishing she was in his head so this would go much faster.

"Victor!" Booth repeated forcefully. He stepped back from Brennan, struggling to keep his composure for both of their sakes. An argument was not the way he envisioned them announcing their relationship to their friends.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

He stepped back further towards her couch. "Yes, Victor. The guy who called you this morning, wondering if you'd made a decision on whether you were going to spend _three months _with him this summer on a dig, playing hooky in a tropical rain forest."

Instantaneously, the moment Booth said _three months, _it dawned on Brennan to whom and what he was referring. She hadn't thought of the offer to help in the dig down in Peru in over a month. She'd been so engrossed in cases, _in Booth, _that thinking about her normal, extracurricular activities had been last on her to do list. Victor had asked for her assistance so long ago, far before he and his crew had really had time to set-up, that she'd almost forgotten about it until now. He'd called her on his cell phone a few times since then, but she was always forced to ignore him due to more pressing issues in the moment.

"Oh," she said, with a easy, relieved shrug. "_That_ Victor. Honestly, I haven't made a decision."

Booth, however, didn't seem comforted by that.

"You haven't made …," he started to say, breathlessly. The annoyance grew steadily in his eyes with every passing second. "You haven't made a decision? Bones, it's _three months!_" he continued, exasperated.

Brennan folded her arms, still failing to see his point.

"Yes, three months. Booth, I've been spending my free time helping on anthropological digs all my professional life. It's why I became a forensic anthropologist, because my true love is studying bones from other, more ancient cultures. You know that better than anyone. Of course, I'm considering it."

"Bones," he pushed. "Three … months. How can you possibly be considering it? If it were two weeks, maybe even a month, it may not be so bad. But _three months_. With a guy who sounded like he wanted to have sex with you right there on the phone."

Brennan gave him a soft smile. It seemed apparent now why Booth was so out of shape over her possible summer plans. She mentally berated herself for not thinking of jealousy as a motive for his anger sooner. Jealousy in sexual relationships was not a usual feeling for her.

She walked up to him and reached her hand out to his forearm, urging him closer to her.

"Booth, you have nothing to worry about," she eased. "You've been extremely satisfying for me as a lover. Since I've been with you, I've had no desire to search for anyone else."

He huffed a little, but Brennan caught the gleam in his eye.

"You make it sound so romantic," he teased.

Brennan pulled him even closer, but not too close as she was still aware that the windows to her office had a clear view of the lab platform outside.

"I know you don't like it, but it's my decision. If I decide to go, it's _only_ three months," she said, trying to calm him. Her change of emphasize on the time frame of how long she could be gone lessened the tension in Booth's face. She tightened her grip on his arm with affection. "I know you trust me."

He nodded, and a little red blush rose to his cheeks. "I do."

And before Brennan had a chance to think over her words, she added leisurely, "And Victor and I haven't slept together since we were on a dig together in Africa over nine years ago."

Booth pulled away from her immediately, almost unsure he had heard right. And every ounce of control he had gained throughout her attempt to explain had vanished into thin air.

"You … you what?"

Brennan opened her mouth to respond, but quickly realized what she'd said did not come out as the comforting reassurance she'd intended. Booth was already on the other side of the room, steaming in anger like he'd been before at the beginning of this conversation.

Stammering a little to recover, she added, "I just meant that … it's been years since Victor and I had sex, and because the experience was timid, at best, I haven't pursued him since."

But that didn't seem to help.

"Are there any other secrets you want to tell me before we go any further?" he asked heatedly. He confronted her, challenged her to come up with something else to fuel his anger all the more.

Brennan, however, didn't take the bait. She knew her words had hurt him, and he had every right to be angry with her for neglecting to discuss with him her summer plans sooner. Because whether she was used to it or not, what she did and planned effected him, and he deserved to know. Yet his anger, his own words, only made _her _more angry. She'd kept nothing from him, especially since they'd started having sex. He was the only person in her life that she trusted completely, more than Angela, more than her father and her brother. For him to believe she'd been withholding parts of her past from him on purpose upset her greatly.

"Secrets?" she shot back, the last of the warmth and understanding gone from her voice completely now. She felt her cheeks redden, felt her voice rise with every word. "You want to discuss secrets? If so, I think we should begin with the cause for your episodes of insomnia over the past month."

Her words felt good, fulfilling. The pressure was finally off of her, and she felt empowered by the recharge.

Booth stiffened. "What?"

"Your nightmares. Do you truly believe I don't hear you?" she replied.

The blood drained from Booth's face. He sucked in a deep breath and turned away from her, embarrassed and humiliated. Her awareness of his most recent pain, his most persistent pain, sapped all the wind from his sails.

"They're nothing," he insisted quietly.

Brennan walked up closer to him. "They're _something_, Booth. Maybe they've been nothing in the past, but they're something now. You're exhausted most of the day. You're up half the night. Too many nights like the ones you've suffered through could lead to a vast array of serious health problems."

"Bren …" he urged, pleaded.

"You can tell me," she said. She walked up to him, confronted him. "I want you to share with me why your dreams are so hurtful for you. I want to help you through this." Her words felt more like a mild reprimand now, rather than an outlet for her anger. The emotion in her voice was a reflection of her own frustration, as she finally had a way of telling him what she'd observed in him the last few weeks. He needed to know his attempt to hide his problems from her hadn't worked, and furthermore needed to realize he had no reason hide them from her in the first place.

But Booth just couldn't warm up to her persistence, to her attempt to aid him with something he's never let anyone else know.

"Please …," he began, his voice now stronger with defiance. He gazed at her over his shoulder. Her eyes disclosed her will, ever consuming and determined. "Temperance … just leave it …" he said.

"No, I won't." She tried to reach for him, but he pulled back away from her.

Finally facing her, his eyes turned to stone and his jaw clenched.

"Leave it alone," he reiterated with a shout, his anger returning. "It's none of your business. Just like you're deciding to go to Peru for three months seems to be none of mine."

Booth walked quickly to the door to leave, but Brennan's plea stopped him just at her doorway.

"Booth … don't leave, we're not done here," she said, far more harshly than she'd wanted.

He gave her a quick glance, let a second pass before he answered stiffly. "I have to go to _Lambert's Food Market _to interview Hamilton's boss."

"You don't want me to go with you?" Brennan asked, although she still sounded annoyed rather than helpful. She half-expected he would say yes, because never did their disagreements come in the way of their investigations. Their _bickering sessions, _as Booth liked to refer to them, were apart of the norm, though it had been a long time since any of them had felt this intense.

His face was turned back to the door, his voice muffled by the glass as he answered.

"That's why I asked Sweets to meet me here. I had a feeling this wasn't going to go well," he said quietly.

And then he was through the door, gone, disappeared into the lab outside to find Sweets. The silence left behind in his wake was almost too much for Brennan to handle. She rubbed her right temple and closed her eyes; tried to rationalize and review the conversation like the scientist she was. She hated arguments, especially when her social skills were so poor to begin with. She had no way of knowing the impact of Booth's exit, not without Angela's expertise.

Brennan didn't want to assume the possibility that she very well could have ruined what she had with Booth, all because she had crossed a line he hadn't been ready for her to see. Not to forget, her past involvement with Victor, her failure to inform Booth of her summer plans before he stumbled into the knowledge by mistake had been a near time bomb.

But why? Why was it a time bomb, when her only sin was not telling him about it sooner? Did the three months apart really bother him? Or was the idea of her spending those three months with a man whom she's already been involved with sexually the real source for his anger?

The source for her anger was simple. Booth knew her decision to go to Peru was her own, and he had no right to tell her she couldn't go - all because he was acting childish over some stupid one-night stand she'd committed nearly nine years ago. His jealousy had no merit now, as he had no reason to worry that she would end up in bed with Victor, or anyone else. Her word should've been sufficient enough to ease his concerns.

And why was he keeping the content of his dream so secret? Was it that painful, that grotesque? Booth has shared so much of himself with her throughout their partnership, and the past four months of sexual intimacy has only made him more open, more endearingly honest. So she struggled to understand what would be worse than disclosing a past with an abusive father, or that of losing a friend in combat. There were so many things she knew, so many stories he's told her while eating in cheesy cafes, while sitting in restaurants on clumsy bar stools, and while lying leisurely in his arms under the lingering warmth of afterglow that it made her wonder what could possibly be in this dream that would make him feel so ashamed.

"Sweetie?" Angela called.

Brennan looked up the moment she heard her name. Angela was in the doorway, her face drawn with great concern as she peered into the office with caution. No doubt she'd seen Booth leave in an angry huff, and felt the need to investigate.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, worried.

Brennan almost considered asking Angela to stay, to close the door so no one else could hear her confess to the last four months of amazing sex with Booth. It would be a means to an end, of course, as then Brennan could tell Angela all about her argument with Booth and hopefully receive the perfect advice from her closest friend. She always knew exactly what to say, and when it needed to be said.

However, the confession remained hidden, locked away, coupled by the promise she and Booth had made to each other at the dawn of their relationship.

Irritable and angry, Brennan swiped defiantly at the glistening cloud that had formed around her eyes. She didn't want anyone to see her like this, and the determination buried her feelings, if only for the moment and hopefully long enough to solve the case.

"It's nothing important," Brennan reassured, walking to the door where Angela stood.

"Are you sure?"

Brennan nodded as she moved past her friend and into the lab.

"Yeah," she replied. She started towards the vehicle, to the victim that still awaited further analysis. "I'm sure."

Yet still her unsaid confession, her feelings and fears for Booth burned and jostled around deep inside of her … like lightning in a bottle.

* * *

to be continued ....


	3. The Mission in the Chaos

**_Title: The Thunder after the Lightning_**

_Rating: PG-13_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Bones … _

_Author's Note: Here we go, next section … _

**_Chapter 2: The Mission in the Chaos_**

_

* * *

_

Booth chose to stare mindlessly at the road as he drove through heavy traffic towards the grocery store where their possible victim worked as an assistant manager. It didn't take too long during the drive for Booth to realize he might have preferred arguing with Bones over Sweets' seemingly endless discussion about how his latest gift for Daisy didn't fly to well. For a professed relationship expert for his patients, Sweets had been coming to Booth an awful lot in the past few months for advice on how to douse the flames of minor explosions. Sweets and Daisy _were _only a few months into their new marriage, so certainly he was trying to make sure the transition from engagement to betrothed was a smooth one.

Not that Booth knew anything about marriage. Rebecca refused to marry him when the opportunity arose. No telling what Brennan would do, seeing as she didn't believe in marriage whatsoever. He liked to believe she would eventually turn around and _want _to marry him, but that was a lot to ask for when Bren hardly cared to discuss even moving in with him.

"She told me once she liked basketball," Sweets continued, his voice bellowing almost like a whine. "That's why I thought the tickets were a good idea." He shifted in his seat and gazed out his window.

Booth smiled knowingly. "Well, women often tell you things they don't mean. They're just as apt to lie to you as you are to them."

"Yeah, I know that … I was just trying to surprise her with something different. Sometimes jewelry, flowers, and everything seems so monotonous. I mean, that can't be all that women want as gifts, right?"

"All of that is in the beginning, Sweets. As time goes on, creativity is extremely helpful," Booth said. He thought briefly of the Christmas he bought a tree for Bones, and lit it up with his car battery outside of the conjugal visitors' trailer at the prison. _That_ had been the perfect gift for Bones, at a time when she really needed someone to cheer her up. For someone like her, who was wealthy enough that over extravagant gifts were unnecessary, the tree idea had been ingenious. And he wasn't even trying to sleep with her at the time.

Not really, anyway.

"So, Agent Booth …," Sweets began thoughtfully.

But the second Booth heard the tone in his friend's voice, it was all he needed to know.

"Nope, don't even go there, Sweets," Booth warned, glancing to him.

Sweets gave him a regretful look. "Oh, come on. You have to talk about it."

"No, actually, I don't. Just don't say a word about it, all right? It's nothing big," Booth said, hopeful he could get Sweets to drop it.

But there was no hope for that.

"We all saw it. I don't think I've ever seen you and Dr. Brennan shout so much at each other. That was intense."

"Now is that _not_ talking about it?"

Sweets shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, I just want to help. And not as your therapist or your fellow FBI colleague, but as your friend."

"Bones and I," Booth began, trying to sound unconcerned, "we'll get through it. We always do."

"I'm sure you will."

"We argue all the time. It's not a big deal," he continued. Clearly he was trying to convince himself of that more than Sweets, and Sweets hadn't missed it.

Sweets let the silence settle a little between them as he considered what he'd seen in Dr. Brennan's office with a trained psychologist's eye. He'd known the two of them for a long time, and their arguments were usually, as Booth so aptly put it, _bickering sessions _that continued for days. It took those number of days to solve the real core issue that prompted the _bickering_, but rarely did he ever see them in an all out shouting match. On a regular basis they argued like two chess players, one move, one word at a time to move along what they were so desperately trying to get the other one to understand.

But this time… this was not bickering for them at its norm. It burrowed deeper, struck the core with a far different tune.

"I have a theory," Sweets announced helpfully.

Booth rolled his eyes. "Please, no analyzing. Yes, I had an abusive, alcoholic father, and Bones was abandoned as a child by both her parents and her brother. But none of that has anything to do with what's going on between us, okay?"

Sweets chuckled. "I agree, your problem with Dr. Brennan has nothing to do with either of your pasts."

"Good, so we're settled then?"

"No," Sweets replied. "I think I know exactly what's going on here."

Booth stiffened slightly, a little afraid that maybe Sweets had actually discovered what was _really_ going on between him and Bones. For that reason alone he humored him.

"Oh yeah?" Booth prodded, his heart pounding hard inside his chest. "You can't always depend on your Magic 8 ball."

"I construe that Dr. Brennan is going out with a man, and you two are having trust issues."

Booth sighed in relief.

"That's your theory, huh?" he teased, so happy his sordid affair with Bones would be kept a secret for a little while longer. Their huge argument was the very reason why they'd been playing around behind closed doors, as they were afraid it wouldn't work out.

But more than that, if he and Brennan were able to get past their problems here, they would have fun trying to bypass their friends while they raced to reach one of their apartments before the flame of their desire for one another took over. He could already imagine how amazing the make-up sex would feel, in the middle of the day and on Bren's living room floor. The coziest spot in Washington was lying on the plushy white rug in her living room, naked, with an opened bottle of a tasty doubt malt Scotch, while wrapped in her arms and the funky-looking African blanket she'd bought at a flea market in Cairo the only thing concealing them.

He really loved that blanket.

If he closed his eyes, it wouldn't take Booth long to feel her soft lips grazing his ear.

"Booth, you really shouldn't let her relationships bother you so much. Obviously, Dr. Brennan trusts you with her life."

Booth let the warm images in his mind fade, although not of his choice. The supermarket was finally up ahead, and sat back off the main street. It was a little smaller than what Booth expected, but the parking lot in front was pretty large, and it looked busy from the amount of cars. Booth pulled in easily.

"You know what, Sweets?" Booth said. He parked his SUV in a parking spot just a few feet away from the main entrance. And as he unbuckled his seat belt, he admitted in feign, "You are absolutely right."

Sweets made a strange face. "I am?"

Booth nodded as he opened his door. "You bet."

Sweets didn't answer as they both exited the SUV. Of course, Booth saying he was right was actually a sign that he was very wrong. In that case, Sweets decided to rethink his analysis of the scene in Dr. Brennan's office. He was going to get their problem right if it took him all day. He was sure it was obvious, and although to discover their problem would go much faster if they were in his office and he could listen to them speak to one another, Sweets felt challenged by Booth now. He had to do it without speaking to either of them.

They walked through the main entrance doors, and a few of the cashiers immediately looked their way. Both Booth and Sweets were wearing suits, as was the dress code for the FBI, so it was no wonder a few of the employees and some of the customers stared them down as they crossed through the store. They really did look like government men, and often times that made Booth laugh.

_The scary FBI, coming to arrest everyone_, he thought to himself.

Booth found an employee in the produce section, placing fresh oranges in a display. He walked up to him with his badge open and in hand, and nudged him away from his work.

"Agent Booth, FBI," Booth informed. The employee was a young kid, maybe twenty, and his eyes grew as big as the very oranges he was putting away. "Can you tell me where the manager is?"

The kid nodded quickly. "Yeah, yeah. I think he's still in his office in the back," he replied, gesturing towards the back corner of the small store. "Mr. Haynes."

"Thanks," Booth said, trying to sound complimentary, as opposed to scary. He always told Bones to be as nice to people as possible, because one never knew when they would be needed later for information in a case.

Booth and Sweets headed towards the office. The door on the outside was labeled _office _underneath the small window. Booth peered through the glass and saw a hallway connecting each office room inside for all of the major employees. Certainly any financial accountant, probably the assistant managers, and the manager. Booth twisted the handle and was glad the door was unlocked. It made this so much easier.

He opened the door a crack. "Mr. Haynes?" he called out with caution.

"Yes?" a voice answered from deep within the enclosed space.

Booth immediately caught the scent of brewing coffee, fresh copies from a copy machine, and potent lemon from a cleaning agent.

"I'm Agent Booth from the FBI. I need to ask you a few questions," he informed. He slipped through the hallway, giving a glance into each office for good measure. One office on his immediate left had a young woman on the phone, arguing quietly with the caller. The one across from her was empty, as was the one just beyond her on the same side of the hallway. However, a door down from the first office on the right was the manager's space.

Booth drew closer to the doorway. In the office was a man standing at the copy machine, tapping his right foot anxiously as he waited for his copies.

The manager peered over his shoulder and saw Booth. Sweets was still in the first office, as he realized immediately it was Ethan Hamilton's space.

"I'm sorry," the manager apologized. He gathered the copies from the machine and quickly placed them on his messy desk. Messy, actually, didn't begin to describe it. He had papers stacked at every corner, and it was impossible to trace it's outline. The rest of his office looked little different. There were a few shelves, all with folders and books strewn haphazardly. Booth was surprised the man could even get close to the copy machine, as it was surrounded by junk - folders, papers, a few Chinese boxes and pizza boxes, and newspaper.

"You said you were Agent Booth?" he asked, breaking Booth's concentration.

Booth nodded and reached for his badge inside his coat pocket. "FBI. You're Mr. Haynes, the manager?"

Mr. Haynes adjusted his glasses. He was medium built, middle-aged, and balding. Actually, Booth could think of nothing else but the _squints _who'd been in his high school. Brennan and her team were, if nothing else, unusual in that they only resembled true geeks about half the time. As professional scientists with doctorates, top of their field, their success had essentially helped them overcome any social awkwardness that a lifetime in the lab had once cost them. People respected them, and it wasn't hard to see that they appreciated it.

And Brennan was hardly someone Booth would label as a traditional squint … she was too gorgeous to be considered in such a category.

With Mr. Haynes, well … he looked to Booth like a guy who had ended up in a spot he never intended. Managing a grocery store was probably not the career of his dreams.

"Yes, I'm the manager. Is something wrong?" he asked nervously.

Booth stepped further into the office, sidestepping the garbage where he could. He was sure if it required it, having the FBI forensic team search through this room would take longer than taking down a whole crack house.

"Just here to talk about one of your employees. Ethan Hamilton."

Haynes nodded. "Yeah, he's one of my managers. Sit down, if you'd like Agent Booth."

Booth cringed inwardly and just placed his hands in his pockets. "No, but thank you, I'm fine. Ah, when was the last time you saw him?"

Haynes shrugged. "Yesterday, here. Actually, he's supposed to be here now for work. I've been calling his cell phone all morning."

Sweets entered then behind Booth, and it took him an extra moment not to react to the condition of the manager's office.

Before Haynes could ask, Booth answered, "This is a colleague at the FBI, Mr. Sweets." He purposely left the doctor part out, so as to give Sweets the full opportunity to analyze their first interview. Usually, the moment someone discovers Sweets is a psychologist they pull back and try to hide obvious signs, or clear indicators as to the person's true intentions.

"So you said you haven't heard from him yet this morning?" he asked again, clarifying.

Haynes crossed his arms. "Yeah, I had to come in this morning to cover. It's supposed to be my morning off. Did something happen?"

"We found Hamilton's car on the side of Interstate 81, burnt to a crisp. A man was inside."

Haynes winced noticeably, then removed his glasses and started to clean them with a Kleenex from his back pocket.

"It was Ethan?" he asked, clearly upset.

Booth watched Haynes carefully as he continued. "We don't have a positive ID yet."

Haynes didn't say anything right away, but finished cleaning his glasses. He placed them back on, then glanced to Booth with a drawn face. "He didn't have much family around here."

"No, it's why we came here first. This seems to have been the place he spent most of his time."

Sweets worked his way around the office. He had to watch his step as he walked, because nearly every inch of the floor was covered with papers, files or folders, and take-out boxes from every local restaurant in the area. Clearly, Sweets could tell Mr. Haynes had little social life, and had no one waiting for him at home.

There was only one remotely neat spot in the entire space, and that was a three shelf bookcase that was sitting against the back wall behind Haynes' desk. The bookcase was stuffed to the brim, but looked almost organized. On the top shelf of the bookcase, surrounded by more files and papers, sat an 8 x 10 framed photo of Marilyn Monroe.

"Did Ethan have any problems with the other employees?" Booth asked.

"Not really. He was a manager, so there were always a few who didn't like him. But mostly everyone respected him."

"Were you aware of any problems in your staff? Any secrets?" Sweets asked, chiming in.

Haynes went over and sat in the chair behind his desk. "Nothing major, really," he said with a sigh. "Nothing that I can think of, although employees tend to quiet down quickly whenever I come into the room. I'm sure that's normal."

Booth saw a baseball sitting on Haynes desk, enclosed in a clear, box-like case. He walked over and picked up the treasure, noting it had about four autographs written on it.

"Did Ethan have a girlfriend?" Booth asked, still gazing at the ball.

Haynes looked a little nervous when Booth picked up his ball, and he became even more agitated when Booth took the ball out of its case. He even went so far as to stand up and reach for it, but Booth moved it a little out of his reach. Booth smiled and gave him an expectant look.

"Uh, not lately. It's been awhile. He was pretty secretive about his social life," he said, moving around the desk to reach for his ball. "Can you please … uh … give me my ball? It's not good for it to be out of its case. The skin has natural oils, and your sweat will only ruin the ball's excellent condition."

Booth smirked and set it back in the case. "Baseball fan?"

"Yeah, huge."

"Red Sox, huh? Is that David Ortiz's signature?" Booth noted.

Haynes reached for it once more, and this time Booth let him take the case from him. He wiped off each side carefully, then set it back on his desk. "Do you have any more questions about my former manager? He was a great guy. I think you owe it to him to find his killer, not waste time here. My employees are free to talk to you, if that's what you need."

Booth nodded and walked closer to Haynes, his smile easy and comfortable. "That's fine. I just have one more question. Where were you last night?"

Sweets tuned in now to listen a little more closer, as he had been traveling around the room looking at different objects of interest. He, too, found a sports reference - not a baseball signed by baseball players, but rather a hockey stick signed by Pittsburgh Penguins star Sydney Crosby hidden in the far left corner. He noticed the bottom was worn, damaged, and concluded it must have been game-used by Crosby himself - a true masterpiece in the sports world.

"I was working last night. I work late most Thursday nights, trying to finish inventory where I can."

"Okay," Booth said. "That's all we need to know for now. We'll start interviewing the employees, if you have a quiet room we can use-"

But Booth didn't have a chance to finish before they heard two gunshots outside the office, coming from somewhere in the store. Two more gunshots followed, and then a woman screamed.

Booth quickly drew his gun and looked to both the manager and Sweets, each of whom were hunched down and staring in the direction of the doorway to the store with shock.

"You two stay here," he ordered.

Quickly he moved his way out into the hallway and through the door, back out into the store. Before the store had been filled with noise, from people, the recycled music coming from the store's speakers, and clanging shopping carts being pushed down the aisles. Now only the music from the speakers remained, playing an old U2 song. Everything else had come to a complete stand still.

Then he heard a male voice shouting from the front.

"Everyone remain perfectly calm, and this will all go so much easier."

Booth flipped through the possibilities of what he would see. It felt like a robbery, a situation he rarely had to deal with. The last robbery he remembered was back a few winters ago, when a Santa Claus came out of a bank entrance and was blown up by the bomb strapped to his chest because a bad radio frequency set if off before the actual robbers were ready. That was an experience he had no desire to emulate.

But here he was, although this was certainly not a bank. _Maybe_, he thought to himself, as he moved through the produce towards the front, _it was a gunman who was set off by a rude cashier or something. _Booth had seen stranger things, and he thought the latter situation was one he could tone down easily if given the chance.

When Booth came to the end of the produce section, he hid close to the nearby aisle with gun in hand, pointed to the floor. He took a breath, then peered around the aisle's end cap to capture a glimpse of the situation. He had no desire to do something stupid and wanted nothing else but to dissolve this problem here and now.

In front of the seven checkout lines, a young man held a woman tight in his arms and was facing away from Booth, his gun to her chest andanother man lying dead at their feet. Booth glanced away from them to get his bearings, take a deep breath, before he decided to make his move.

He closed his eyes, counted to three, then turned the corner and pointed his gun at the assailant and his hostage.

"FBI!" Booth shouted. "Step away from the woman."

The young man turned to him and laughed softly. He instinctively drew the woman tighter to him, essentially using her as a shield. "Are you a good shot man?" he asked, pressing the head of his gun more firmly into the young woman's chest.

The woman screamed and Booth willed himself not to do something stupid. He clenched his teeth and strengthened his hold on his gun. Booth thought he could make the shot; shoot the guy in the head without hurting the woman. But he hesitated, mostly because the man was jostling a little too much for his liking. He would hate it if he happened to miss. The chance was slim, but it was enough to make him wait for a better shot.

"Just let her go, buddy," Booth ordered tightly. "Don't do this."

The young man shifted a little more towards Booth, making his window even smaller.

"I think I'm the one who should be in charge here, FBI," he mocked with a wide grin. "Because underneath this beautiful woman in my arms is a bomb, strapped to me in case something here doesn't quite go the way I want."

Booth felt his nostrils flare with anger and moved a little closer to him.

"Let her go!" he shouted.

Then suddenly Booth was tackled from behind and pulled to the floor. So drawn to the young man, Booth hadn't noticed his accomplice coming up behind him. The force the other man used to tackle Booth caused the man to tumble over him to the other side, off of Booth and onto the floor ahead of them. Yet the young man's friend didn't get much further in neutralizing the FBI threat, as Booth quickly regained the upper hand. The moment he regained his footing, the other man lunged at Booth, who was now on his back, and he simply kicked him aside. Booth got to his feet immediately and looked for his gun, but the other man returned before he could, landing a hard fist into his side.

Booth gritted his teeth, but turned and grabbed the man's arm, flipping him to the side like a rag doll. His attacker quickly scrambled to his feet again, but Booth was there in moments. Booth landed a shot to his jaw, then another to his ribs. He evaded a blow to his own ribcage, then kneed the guy hard in his stomach, dropping him quickly. And just as Booth finally caught sight of his gun under a small display of candy, which he'd lost when his attacker had tackled him earlier, another shot rang out.

It didn't take long for Booth to find out where this bullet went, as his left leg crumbled underneath him and he dropped quickly to the tile floor. The pain seared through his leg, up through his hip, and the world around him started to spin.

"Does anyone else want to try and stop us?" the younger man shouted out.

Booth tried to lift himself to a sitting position, but it was incredibly difficult. In seconds Sweets hurried over and helped him to sit up, but his efforts only allowed Booth to see his friend's distraught face staring back at him. Everything was a bit of a blur as he heard Sweets yell to another person to grab the package of towels from the shelf just behind them. Sweets ripped them open, tore a number of sheets off the roll, then pressed them hard onto Booth's leg.

The bullet had struck him in his left thigh, and Sweets first attempt to stop the bleeding with paper towels was failing miserably. The blood had already started to soak through within the first thirty seconds.

"Hang in there, Booth," Sweets said, his voice thick with fear. He tore off a few more towels and placed them on top of the blood soaked towels he'd already used, desperately trying to recall all he had learned in his medical classes in college.

A woman in her late thirties came over to them quickly, and kneeled down next to Booth. She had gauze, anti-septic, and a jug of water in her hands.

"I'm a nurse," she informed.

Sweets felt his heart slow with happiness.

"Thank goodness," he said, his breathing still ragged. "I'm a doctor of psychology, not of medical practice."

Booth looked to the man who had shot him. The younger man had let go of his hostage, giving Booth a clear view of the bomb strapped neatly to the man's chest. He walked over to Booth, and on the way one of his helpers handed him Booth's gun.

He stood over Booth and looked down at him with a smirk.

"No more hero play, FBI. I could've killed you, but I have a feeling I'm going to need your help."

Booth gritted his teeth when he felt the woman beside him, the nurse, tear away the fabric from his left thigh to get a better look at the injury.

"Are you sure you haven't already?" Booth asked, very aware a shot in the leg could kill him just as easily as a shot in the skull. He'd learned that from the Rangers, and from Brennan.

The woman acknowledged his concern, and replied, "The bullet is still in your leg, but I don't think it hit the artery."

"See," the young man above him said. "I told you I knew what I was doing. The moment you said you were FBI, I realized how valuable you were going to be through all of this. But when I saw how easily you took care of my best guy, I also realized I needed to incapacitate you. Because I hardly need to be worrying about some FBI guy trying to the play the big role and save the world."

Booth looked directly into the young man's eyes, his stare cold.

"There's no way I'll help you."

The man smiled. "Oh, I think you will. Especially when all of these people in this super market are waiting for you to save them. And because I think you and I are looking for the same thing."

"What do you mean?" Booth grumbled, feeling his vision blur a little from the pain.

The young man bent down in front of Booth.

"Well, I'm also looking for my brother's killer. The name's Byron Hamilton."

* * *

Angela took a soothing sip of her tea. She'd been working on trying to revitalize some of the materials from the trunk of the car for further analysis. The leather briefcase was destroyed, and most of its contents had also been so. A few, however, were almost readable, and it was those few papers she was scanning and trying to decipher. She could really only rescue a few words here, a few letters there. And it all seemed like a confusing arrangement, or maybe even a foreign language she hadn't cross-referenced yet. Whatever it was, it was starting to make her eyes cross.

She decided then it was time to give herself a little break. Standing from her desk chair, Angela stretched her legs and sighed with contentment. Outside she could hear Brennan continuing to study their new victim, her voice stiff and precise with her entire team. Hodgins had decided to hide himself in his cubicle while he worked to identify the particulates that he had already gathered from the car. Cam didn't stay long on the forensic platform, either, finding ways to go back to her office to study sections of the body she could wrestle away from Brennan.

The only one forced to suffer from Brennan's sour mood was Daisy, and even the happiest member of the team was beginning to tire from her boss' demands.

Angela considered going out there to ease Brennan down from her high, but quickly decided against it. Less than an hour ago Brennan and Daisy had just detached the victim's body from the rest of the car without compromising further evidence, and were knee deep in bone talk. No need to disturb that.

Grabbing a granola bar from a drawer in her desk, Angela flipped her computer to Fox News on the Internet. Sometimes being locked up in her office for hours made her feel isolated from the rest of the world, and she enjoyed five minutes of news to make her feel apart of society again.

She wasn't really paying much attention to the content at first. Cleaning her office also helped her think more clearly, so she began doing that mindlessly, as well. Angela took a bite of her granola bar, then proceeded to pick up the newspapers Hodgins had left strewn across her couch. Why he liked to read the latest conspiracy crap he received in the mail on _her _couch escaped her.

Then Angela heard the words _Washington_, and _hostage situation _from her computer, and glanced up in curiosity. The male reporter was standing in a parking lot, although Angela could not tell of what or where. He spoke quickly, answering a question from a few moments earlier that Angela hadn't heard. Something about gun fire, and more than four men inside.

"_How many shots were fired?" _asked the woman from inside the newsroom studio.

The male reporter shook his head. _"Initial reports from witnesses are now saying at least four, maybe five. I've also heard there may be at least one man killed, and perhaps another injured. Although those reports are preliminary, and are coming from what local police here are able to see through the windows."_

The camera angle drew out a little further from the reporter's face to give the viewers a better look at the few windows of the structure, and Angela suddenly felt a queasiness turn her stomach.

On the outside of the building was the sign- _Lambert's Food Market._

* * *

"Dr. Brennan," Daisy began, pleading, "There's still a bit of flesh left on these bones. I think Dr. Saroyan should take over now so she can gather whatever she needs before we strip the bones of all remaining flesh. I believe we've gathered all that we can until then."

Brennan was looking closely at the skull, her gloved hands glimmering over the back. She turned the skull slightly and continued to study the bullet's exit wound, finally for the first time.

"Not until I'm satisfied, Miss Wick," Brennan replied, her eyes fixed on the bullet hole.

"You've just been looking at that skull for quite a while," Daisy said quietly. Her eyes were mostly on the ribcage and right arm, both of which had been injured either by the crash or while in a fist fight. Daisy was leaning towards the latter, as the points of injury were precise, as if by fist or weapon.

Brennan stood up straight and walked over to Daisy's side of the body.

"The bullet hole in the skull is most probably the cause of death. Just as the bruise shown on the ribs here indicate our victim was struck by an object, the force of which caused a hairline fracture along the bone. The fracture along the right maxillary bone also shows evidence of a weapon used, although initial indicators seem to suggest the weapon used here is different than the one used on the ribs. Although that is merely a suggestion, not a confirmed conclusion. To begin filling your time while you wait for me to finish examining the body in full detail, I suggest you begin discerning the types of weapons that could've been used. Start by making a cast of each injury spot, and then ask Angela to help you."

Daisy cleared her throat and quickly went back to studying the bruises on the ribcage. She was just a few weeks away from presenting her dissertation, and she still felt inadequate when she worked so closely with Dr. Brennan. And to think that Dr. Brennan would be on the committee hearing her dissertation usually kept her up at night.

The difficulty of removing the body from the car was probably the reason why Daisy was feeling a little out of sorts. They were usually down to only bone by now, and Dr. Brennan hadn't even asked her to start boiling off the rest of the flesh yet.

Cam walked up onto the lab platform, coming from her office with new information.

"I have a DNA sample, but so far no matches to the FBI's files," Cam replied.

"I'm almost finished with my initial analysis of the body," Brennan informed Cam in return. "Did Hodgins take a sample of the particulates from the left maxillary bone?"

Hodgins came around the corner with a smile and clipboard in hand. "Already on my slate, Dr. Brennan."

Brennan wanted to tell him about another section of the body that he needed to take samples from, but Angela interrupted all of them.

"Hey guys!" she shouted urgently. She was standing just inside her office doorway. The fearful expression on her face was hard to miss. "You have to come in here and see this."

Those on the platform shared a look of confusion, but knew they needed to take their colleague seriously, as she rarely ever cried wolf. Hodgins and Cam immediately hurried for Angela's office, with Daisy in tow behind them. Brennan stopped for a moment to remove her gloves and throw them away, seeing it as pertinent to retrieve new ones when she returned to avoid compromising evidence because she left the lab platform for a few moments.

Brennan reached Angela's office doorway, and saw Angela, Cam, Daisy, and Hodgins already standing in awe in front of her big screen, lost to its images. From the commotion on the screen, she could tell immediately that it was a newscast. She took just a step towards them before Angela, who stood closest to the door, glanced her way, her eyes red and brimming with tears. Brennan didn't know what to take from the fear she saw in her friend's eyes - the regret, the sorrow.

Angela motioned for her to come closer, and Brennan did so without a word. Standing motionless next to her friend, Brennan watched the events on the screen unfold in front of her. What she saw first was the words _hostage situation, _and then _Lambert's Food Market. _However, what stopped her heart more than the others was _five shots now confirmed fired _and _at least one dead, and another injured. _Brennan couldn't stop watching as they explained what little they knew, as they pointed to the windows and mentioned the witnesses.

So engrossed in the pictures, in the words, and in the horrific thoughts that were running rampant through her mind, Brennan barely felt the slight touch of Angela's hand as it grasped her own, tightly. She barely realized she'd forgotten to breathe in the last thirty seconds, barely felt her heart as it started to pound hard inside her chest. The words from the reporter were beginning to run together with every passing second, the images a blur as nothing but the absolute worst possibility began to overwhelm every ounce of her body.

A falling sensation came over her like an ocean wave, and the words repeated themselves inside of her conscious; a mantra of her greatest fear, a fear realized in full since the moment she impulsively confessed her astonishing love for Booth in his ear, under a terrific twilight sky …

_Five shots confirmed fired … at least one dead, and one injured … _

"Sweetie?" Angela whispered softly.

Brennan finally felt a rush of air fill her lungs, bring her back to life. She closed her eyes, struggled to regain her composure. The room felt heavy, the people in it a string of concern she tried to ignore. She hated this feeling of emptiness, the very same feeling she fought while Booth was lying out on _The Checker Box _floor, a bullet in his chest, fighting for his life. So evidently in serious trouble then, she hadn't been able to stop the tears from forming once she'd realized she might actually be looking down into his eyes for the last time.

This time felt no different. And what angered her more than ever was the memory of their argument. Brennan couldn't be certain Booth was one of the injured, or one of the dead, but if somehow he didn't make it through, her stomach became nauseous at the thought that the last time she looked into his eyes she did so with anger draping her own.

But then again … maybe Booth wasn't actually inside. Maybe he decided to stay and help the police and other members of the FBI, which explained why his SUV was still in the parking lot.

_Maybe …_

"I'll call his cell," Brennan said suddenly, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

Angela tried to stop her friend from torturing herself, but Brennan had slipped from her grasp and was on the other side of the room in the blink of an eye, her cell phone already to her ear. All the four of them could do was watch and hope for the slimmest chance that Booth had merely been in his SUV while it was happening.

Daisy, already a complete wreck from watching the news, saddened by the very real chance that Sweets was with Booth inside, awaited Brennan's call to Booth with the same hopeful expectation.

But even Angela could hear the rings from where she stood …

_One … two … three …._

Brennan anxiously returned her friend's gaze with teary eyes.

_Four … five … six …_

And then Booth's voice was in Brennan's ear; merely his voice message to those who failed to reach him. She considered leaving a message, thinking he might just really be unable to answer it because he was involved somehow, someway in helping with the situation.

Yet deep inside, she knew better.

Because deep inside, no matter how angry they had been with one another, Brennan knew Booth would've called to let her knew he was okay.

Brennan lifted the phone from her ear, then closed it with a definitive snap. She took a deep breath, and tried hard to think positively, even if the statistical chance that Booth and Sweets were actually in the supermarket was strong enough to warrant serious worry. Angela walked over to her and placed a gentle hand on her arm, prompting Brennan to look up into her eyes once more. They stared at each other for a long, endless moment, the silence the only real comfort.

Finally Angela reassured, softly, "There's no way to know Booth is … you know. I mean, he's probably inside, helping everyone else. Being Booth, being the guy, the hero. I'm sure Sweets is rattling off some psycho mumbo jumbo to calm everyone, making Booth go crazy."

Brennan wiped away the quiet tears from her cheeks.

"He was probably the only other one besides the assailants who had a gun in their possession. If they discovered he was FBI …" she started to explain rationally, but then found it difficult to continue.

"Bren, don't think like that," Angela soothed.

With another deep sigh, Brennan started for the door. "I have to go there."

But she didn't get too far before Angela grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"You can't go there. What do you think you're going to do?" Angela asked, trying to be a voice of reason.

"I don't know, Angela!" Brennan yelled back in frustration, tearing her arm out of her friend's grasp. Her worry quickly prompted a need for action, the incredible emotion inside having no where else to go but be channeled through her anger and determination. "But I can't sit here and do nothing to help them. I'm sure I could be of some use to the police, if only to help them predict Booth's actions." Brennan turned on her heel and walked swiftly through the door, out into the lab area. Although she tried to think of her desire to be at the super market as a necessity, she knew it was likely she would only be in the way of the authorities as they worked. Just as she was the best to study bones, and FBI forensics were the best at gathering evidence at a crime scene, the police were certainly more qualified to rescue hostages from inside a super market.

Yet these rational thoughts, these rational conclusions were no match for her need to personally see the process through. As Booth's partner, he would expect nothing less from her.

_As his best friend … _

_As his lover …_

Brennan needed to stop at her own office first and grab whatever she thought she might need before she left for the super market. Briefly she considered calling her father, because he'd been so helpful before when Booth was missing. Her father was sure to have ideas, and no doubt he would want to help. Max really liked Booth.

She made it only a little ways before she caught sight of two men standing outside her office door. Immediately she slowed her pace, noting she recognized one of the men as someone who worked at the FBI, remembering his face in the hallways whenever she visited Booth's office. He was a younger man, with a strong build, broad shoulders, and facial features almost as symmetrical as Booth's.

"Dr. Brennan?" the FBI guy called out.

Brennan immediately feared the worst, believing this very well could be two men coming to tell her the most tragic news possible. Booth had warned her of this before, saying she would be one of the first to know if something happened to him in the field without her knowledge. Two men, dressed in suits to speak to her personally, to drop the fatal bomb.

"Yes, I'm Dr. Brennan," she replied, walking up to them.

The FBI guy smiled with relief. "I'm Agent Mark Williams, FBI, and this is Detective Mueller from the Washington Police Department."

Brennan nodded stiffly, but found her fear easing a little because of the FBI agent's broad smile. "Is this about Agent Booth?"

Williams stepped closer to her. "You're working on the Hamilton case, right?"

"Yes," she replied, annoyed he hadn't answered her question. "What does that have to do with Booth?"

"I'm sure you've seen the news," Detective Mueller said, again ignoring her question.

Williams pursed his lips in concern. "We received a call from inside Lambert's less than twenty minutes ago. The man on the other line was Byron Hamilton."

"Hamilton was involved with a gangster front in Washington. Did a lot of grunt work for them. We caught him during a drug raid, and he exchanged inside information with us for a lighter sentence. He just got out of prison on parole a few months ago," Mueller added.

Williams pointed to the burnt body on the lab platform. "That man, Ethan Hamilton, was Byron's younger brother. Byron found out sometime this morning that his brother had been killed, and now he wants justice."

"And now you want us to help you clean up your mess?" Hodgins replied angrily from a few feet behind Brennan, having moved into the conversation with the others of the team just a few seconds ago. Now all four were standing behind her. Daisy stood a little further back from the rest, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

"No, we're asking you to help us stop a mad man, and solve a murder in the process," Mueller amended.

Brennan thought for a moment, then asked quietly, "Booth's inside? Dr. Sweets?"

Williams nodded. "Yes, we discovered that while on the phone with Hamilton. He was pretty happy with himself for nabbing a high profile government investigator while staging a simple hostage - as he'd so eloquently put it."

"The news said there were injuries," Angela noted.

Mueller cleared his throat, then replied, "Yes, one dead. One of the customers tried to tackle Hamilton, but took a slug in the heart for his efforts."

"And Agent Booth? Or Dr. Sweets?" Brennan prodded eagerly.

"Booth was shot in the leg," Williams confirmed bleakly. "That's all Hamilton would tell us."

"Where?" Brennan asked briskly, crossing her arms.

Williams gave her a curious look, then said again, "In the leg."

Brennan shook her head. "No, I meant _where_ in the leg."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, actually," she replied, placing her hands on her hips. "Was he shot in the femur? Tibia or fibula? Patella?"

Williams gave Mueller a confused look, then aptly informed, "Um, well … I think Hamilton may have made a joke about what it might have been like for Booth had he shot him just a little higher … so maybe his thigh then?"

Brennan couldn't hide her discomfort of Booth's injury, nor could she stop the bubble of anger that rose inside of her chest and colored her cheeks red. Cam came up beside her, and returned her look of worry. Although a bullet to the thigh wasn't always bad, there was a lot better chance of something going wrong there as opposed to the lower section of the leg.

Cam commented quietly, " If the bullet hit the femur, fractured it in anyway, far better possibility of heavy blood loss."

"He's still alive, so I doubt it hit his femoral artery," Brennan offered back, thankful she felt comfortable making that conclusion. The femoral artery was the ticking bomb in the leg, as anything striking it without immediate medical attention was certain to cause death in the victim.

Cam glanced to Williams. "He _is_ still alive?"

"Yes, as far as we know," Williams reassured. "We're not one hundred percent positive, but the last time our snipers looked through the windows they saw movement."

"So your plan is to have us solve Ethan Hamilton's murder, in the hope that his brother will let all of the hostages go because you gave him exactly what he wanted," Cam said with slight disdain.

Mueller quickly corrected her. "Not exactly. Us agreeing to have the Jeffersonian and the FBI continue to look into his brother's case is just the distraction, to give us time to rescue those inside as soon as possible."

Brennan drew closer to Mueller and Williams, her stare cold, determined. All the tears from a few moments ago had long since evaporated, giving way to the Dr. Brennan who was ready to do whatever she needed to in order to save Booth - her partner, and newest lover. And if that required her to cooperate with the very man who was holding the man she loved hostage, then so be it. She knew who and what was at stake, and that was enough.

"It's comforting to know you have an alternate plan to rescue those inside," Brennan said solemnly. "Because although we at the Jeffersonian are exceptional crime solvers, it usually takes us a few days, at best, to gather everything to develop an acceptable conclusion. Without knowing the full extent of Agent Booth's injury, I can only promise you twenty-four hours before it might be too late."

Williams felt his body stiffen with her words. "Too late? Too late for what?"

"Too late to save Booth," Brennan replied bitterly. "Now seeing as we are now on a strict deadline, I suggest you let us get to work."

Mueller gave Williams a meaningful look. They were obviously contemplating something more, something they had neglected to tell their newest team members concerning this case. But seeing as Dr. Brennan and her team were going to help them, they deserved to know all the parameters.

"You're deadline may be shorter than you think," Williams finally replied, breaking the momentary silence.

Angela came up next to Brennan. "What do you mean? Is there something worse than the pressure of not being able to save our friends?"

"Much worse," Williams replied. "Just before he hung up the phone, Hamilton informed us that he had a bomb."

Brennan felt the nausea in her stomach rise once more, but kept it away from her expression. Instead of displaying her fear, her discomfort, she offered the two officers a disgusted smirk.

"Then for the sake of everyone inside that grocery store," she said, "I think it's prudent for you to develop an alternative strategy _very soon."_

* * *

_to be continued_


End file.
